


After the Storm

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Hugging, Platonic Love, Platonic Relationships, enjoy, post-s01e08, this is a very very happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:17:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8922133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: A new beginning, after the end.





	

First, Rust used a pair of scissors- the old kind, with large handles and long blades. When most of his hair was gone, falling down his shoulders, his neck uncomfortably exposed to the air in a way it hadn’t been in years, he picked up the clippers and slid them across his scalp. It was a foreign feeling, and oddly satisfying. Hair fell down in clumps. He was careful and tentative around the edges of his hairline, where the stitches were still fresh, wincing when he occasionally pressed too hard against bruising.

All the while, even as he shaved his face, he did not look in the mirror. This was not strange for him, but he made a note of it today. He had to change who he was. He had to start anew, after death had nearly carried him away in its invisible embrace, into the waiting arms of his child. He was alive, and he couldn’t run from that. He was still here, and– somehow– he felt hope. For the first time since he’d destroyed his mind with drugs, since he’d lost his daughter, since he’d killed a man at point-blank range. He felt _hope._ This was, undeniably, a new beginning.

He’d always wanted to enjoy his life. Always wished he could have things that made him happy, always craved the ability to believe he deserved contentment. Now? He felt that he _could_ be happy. And that, in itself, was a kind of happiness. A small victory. A shift in perception that had tilted his world to the side and revived him in a whole new way. He felt young again. He felt renewed.

The feeling built in him as he cut his hair.

He ran his hands over his shaved head, movements becoming faster, more energetic. Heightened from the perpetual state of lethargy and slowness that he had suffocated in for what felt like an eternity. He felt that his life had been leading up to this moment, slowly trudging through the mess and pain that loss brought; now, he was breaking through, pushing past, hurting through time. He’d felt like this on his wedding day, he remembered.

He found a mirror, stood in front of it. Looked. Absorbed himself, met his own eyes without fear.

And he started laughing.

 

***

 

Marty read the newspaper every morning.

He always had. It had been a constant throughout his life; through divorce, through death, and through isolation. His connection to the outside world. His handhold in a society that had grown around him, flourishing, and left him far behind.

He absorbed himself in the words he was reading, but half his mind was elsewhere. He had organised Rust a place to stay, because he was– after all this time– a good friend. But he felt he’d made a mistake. He was sure that he should’ve insisted Rust stay with him, because he’d never seen Rust cry before, and the scene outside the hospital had affected them both beyond measure. Marty was worried about him. Worried about what he’d do.

Rust had once said that he lacked the constitution for suicide, but a lot had changed in seventeen years.

Marty put down the newspaper, harder than necessary, panic starting to set in as horror stories played out in his mind. Just as he was standing, gathering his keys to drive to Rust’s house and talk him down from whatever ledge he must surely be teetering on, there was a knock.

Marty froze, confused for a moment. No one ever visited him.

When the shock faded, he realised it must be Rust. Relief filling him, he abandoned his keys on the table, and went to answer the knock.

“Glad you stopped by, man,” he began as he opened the door, “I thought I would… come see you...”

His voice trailed off. He stood there in dumbfounded silence, his brain disconnecting momentarily as he tried to figure out what he was seeing.

Rust had shaved his head. The beard, the moustache, the long hair– it was all gone. Rust’s blue eyes were bright, clear and beautiful as church windows, shining out from his hooded gaze. He was grinning, an expression of true joy; one that made Marty’s chest tighten with unexpected delight, a warmth nestling in his stomach, a smile blooming on his face. He felt he’d been transported back to their early days, when they’d trusted each other, when they’d been young; when they’d been alive to the wonders and cruelties of life, instead of being old and alone.

Rust’s face was battered and bruised, but his happiness shone through his skin like something heavenly, something pure and good and untouchable.

“Marty,” he said, voice catching in his throat, laughing with some kind of amazed abandon, “I’m free, man. I’m…”

Marty knew. He knew exactly what Rust was saying.

He grabbed Rust, pulled him into a crushing hug, felt Rust hold him back, hug him close.

“We’re finally fuckin’ free,” Rust laughed, truly euphoric, “I’m alive, Marty, I’m so _alive_ ,”

Marty laughed too, felt tears in his eyes, felt Rust’s hands against his skin.

“Yeah, me too.” he said, wishing he knew how to articulate what he felt, but knowing he didn’t need to voice it at all.

“I love you.” Rust whispered. “Even after all these years, after all the _shit_ that we went through, I…”

Marty smiled, holding him closer. “I know, Rust. Fucking love you too.”

 

 


End file.
